


The Time-Travelling Suitcase

by LostinFic



Category: True Love (TV)
Genre: Gen, Intrigue, Mystery, One Shot, Teninch Fic, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-07
Updated: 2016-11-07
Packaged: 2018-08-29 14:07:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8492680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LostinFic/pseuds/LostinFic
Summary: Back from a trip, Holly's backpack seems to have been lost by the airline company. The only thing left on the luggage carousel is an old suitcase-- with her name on it.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I was very inspired by this prompt from @writersrelief
> 
> “You’ve finally arrived at your destination and head to baggage claim. But instead of your suitcase the only thing on the carousel is an old, battered valise you’ve never seen before — and it has your name on it. What’s inside? “

Holly should have known better than to check-in her luggage. She always packed a bag light enough that it could be taken as a carry-on. In fact, she had done so on the London-Mumbai flight. But she’d fallen in love with a set of carved-wood bookends that put her backpack over the weight restriction for the return flight. 

A backpack that was nowhere in sight on the luggage carousel.

Holly groaned. She was jet lagged and bloated, still two hours away from home, and the summer break was almost over. She wanted to go home, but mostly she wanted to still be on vacation. And she certainly did not want to have to deal with lost baggage.

The only suitcase left on the carousel was a vintage one, square, brown leather with straps and brass fittings. The kind she hunted flea markets for. Impractical, but oh so chic. She watched it go around and around, carried by the conveyor belt. It disappeared at one end and reappeared at the other. Never accompanied by Holly’s backpack. To whom did this suitcase belong? The question set her imagination ablaze: somewhere else in the world, in another airport, the owner of this suitcase was finding Holly’s backpack. They would find each other, meet to exchange luggage, and it would be love at first sight.

She smiled to herself.

Out of curiosity, she picked up the suitcase and looked at the tag. What she saw, made her heart stop:

Holly Marshall  
103-4 Delancey St  
Margate UK  
CT9 1AF  


Her name. Her address. _Not_ her handwriting.

She closed her eyes to ward off a dizzying wave of _déjà vu_.

_What the bloody hell?_

She scanned the neon-lighted space around her. A few haggard travelers sluggishly carried their luggage towards the exit. Two employees in high-visibility vests went about their tasks. No one was watching her or snickering. No camera crew from a prank tv show. No one waiting for their luggage.

Holly took a deep breath and read the tag again. Her name. Her address. Not her handwriting. She racked her brain for an explanation. Perhaps her backpack had ripped opened— it was old after all— and its content had been moved to this old suitcase they had lying around. Surely, it wasn’t standard procedure. Nothing indicated such an operation and it wasn’t big enough to contain all her clothes and souvenirs. But it was a plausible explanation. Anyway, she was too puzzled by the situation to need a more convincing explanation.

She set the luggage on a nearby bench and attempted to open it. Without the key, it proved impossible. She jiggled the latch, pulled on the straps— nothing would do.

Now, what she should have done at this point was to go to the lost luggage counter. Have her questions answered, and perhaps the suitcase opened by some helpful clerk. That was the reasonable thing to do. Except… In the pit of Holly’s stomach there was this fear— unreasonable, irrational fear— that they might take the suitcase from her. And Holly decided to trust that feeling.

She gripped the handle and followed the yellow signs out of the baggage claim area. When her turn came to go through customs, the fear returned.  Her hand hurt from the weight of the suitcase, yet she didn’t relax her grip, didn’t even put it down or switch hand. The agent stamped her passport, and she walked towards the exit. The suitcase kept knocking against her shins as she carried it— definitely impractical— but it reassured her: it was still there. It existed.

Humid night air met her outside the airport.  And with it came relief. Relief from the recycled air she’d been breathing for the last twelve hours.  And relief that no one had accused her of stealing a suitcase. Her name might be on the tag, but she knew it wasn’t hers. Yet, it was meant for her. A gift: tagged and wrapped. She couldn’t wait to open it, but she still had a two-hour journey to Margate ahead of her.  

 

After the Heathrow express bus and a ride on the tube, she arrived at Victoria station and bought a ticket for the next Southeastern train.

She had twenty minutes to kill and bought a coffee to fight jet lag. After a month in Asia, her internal clock was off, hopefully it would reset before school began next week.  

Before Holly could enjoy one sip of her coffee, someone in a hurry knocked into her, spilling the hot beverage all over her t-shirt. The stranger shouted an apology and scampered off, leaving Holly stained and grumpy. 

She threw away the crumpled plastic cup and dug in her pockets for spare change to buy another coffee— she needed coffee and none of that watered down, overpriced crap available on the train. In her pocket, however, instead of coins, she found a key. A small, unfamiliar key.

 A suitcase key? 

That man, the one who’d run into her, could he have slipped it there? She spun on her heels, scanning the crowd, but he’d long vanished.

No matter how much she wanted to try the key right away, she couldn’t miss her train. She made herself wait until she’d located her seat. 

With trembling hands, she guided the small brass key into the suitcase lock. She held her breath as she turned it. She would be so disappointed if it contained her own clothes. Click. It unlocked. It was indeed clothes, but not her own. Two button-down dresses in floral fabric, a knitted cardigan, wool socks. All of it vintage-looking, like the suitcase, but none of it actually old. Imitations? There was no label on the cardigan, but there was one on the dress: “St-Michaels, made in British Crown colony of Hong Kong”. No washing machine instructions. Underneath, she found underwear, stiff beige garments. Holly frowned.

_Curiouser and curiouser._

 Although at this hour of the night most passengers snored, Holly went to the bathroom to take a closer look. She laughed at the high-waisted knickers, the girdle and garter. The stockings looked good enough with their back seams.

She held one of the dresses in front of her, it looked about one size too big. It smelled of soap, and of leather from the suitcase. In for a penny, in for a pound. She’d stolen the bloody suitcase, might as well go all way and wear the dress instead of her coffee-stained t-shirt. 

Holly slipped the dress over her head, briefly blinding herself. When her sight returned, the bathroom had completely changed: floral wallpaper replaced plastic on the wall, and the stainless steel toilet was now porcelain with a wooden seat.

She jumped when someone knocked on the door.

“Oi! You done in there?” A man shouted, his knocking more insistent.

“Sorry, yes.”

She stuffed the suitcase with her discarded clothes and opened the door. On the other side, stood a soldier, shorter than her, khaki tie askew and a cigarette between his thin lips.

“Sorry, doll, thought it was the gents.”

“You can’t smoke in here.”

He scoffed. “That right? Tell ‘em that.” He pointed down the wagon.

Holly peeked out the bathroom, a cloud of cigarette smoke floated above passengers. But this was not the most extraordinary thing she saw: every passenger wore retro clothes. Women in dresses with hats and gloves and men in suits or army uniforms.

“What the fuck?”

“Pretty lass like you shouldn’t be swearing. So, you comin’ out or should I get in with ya?” He winked.

She pushed past him and out the bathroom. She stared again at the passengers. It had to be some sort of play or festival. Perhaps they’d embarked while she was in the loo. But it wasn’t just the passengers, the whole wagon had changed: no more harsh neon lights on the ceiling or seats upholstered with hideous busy patterns. The seats were wingback double benches, each set facing another. And if she needed more proof something had gone terribly wrong: not one of the passengers was looking at a smart phone.

Dizzy, Holly leaned her forehead against a window, taking in deep breaths. The glass cooled her flushed skin, but it soon became unpleasant, too cold. There was frost on it and snow outside. Snow in August, that didn’t make any sense. Then again, nothing made sense right now.

A conductor entered the wagon. “Next stop Leeds. Leeds, next stop.”

The train seemed to have changed era, she shouldn’t be surprised its destination had changed too. Leeds. She’d only ever visited that city once, years and years ago, to see her grandfather.

“Ticket?” She looked up at the conductor with his thin mustache and starched railway uniform.

“Er, ticket. Right. Yes. It’s– it’s in my suitcase.” She’d put it in her jeans pocket– not that a 21st century ticket would be of any help.

“You look for it, I’ll be back.”

Holly opened her luggage, right there on the floor in front of the loo. There had to be something in there, a clue as to what was going on. 

What if she’d hit her head. Maybe she was bleeding to death in a train bathroom and hallucinating this whole thing. She touched her head– no bump, no blood.

 

The conductor was halfway through checking tickets, he would be back for her soon. She kept digging through the suitcase content. Under the clothes and underwear, she found a book: _Alice au Pays des Merveilles_. Alice in Wonderland, but why in French? Again, it looked old but not aged nor used. When she saw the first page, she knew exactly what image she would find on the next page. She couldn’t remember when and where, but she had seen this book before. Seen not read. It was before she could read…

“Miss? Your ticket?”

“Yeah… it’s…”

“You know what happens to people who try to get away with not paying, right?”

She didn’t want to find out, she had enough trouble already. She discarded the book, it fell opened and a ticket slipped from its pages. A train ticket to Leeds, the destination and price handwritten. The conductor picked it up himself and seemed satisfied. She stared in disbelief at the miraculous stub.

 

As soon as the conductor left the wagon, Holly rummaged through the suitcase again. In the satin lining, she found a pocket, and inside, an envelope. With her heart hammering in her chest, she tore it opened and emptied its content. 

She found a ration book, not yellowed and frayed like the ones she’d seen in museums, but crisp without any stamps in it. Her name had already been written on the front page along with an address and a registration code. 

She also discovered identity papers, a photo of herself stapled inside the folded cardstock. 

And then, there was a photo. Black and white, grainy. At first, she thought the woman was herself, but upon closer inspection she noticed the darker and larger eyes, the fuller figure and softer jawline. The man was more angular and sharp. Clean-shaven with curly hair. His nose was thin and straight, as was the rest of him. They had their arms around each other with happy smiles on their faces.

One the back of the photograph, she noticed an inscription. The first line was faded, older: “Betty and Jean-François 1944”. The second line seemed more recent and scribbled hastily: “Find us, reunite us”. 


End file.
